Ten Things
by Dr. Cultural Studies
Summary: Ten random stories and facts about the personifications of the United (and sometimes quarrelsome) States.
1. Delaware

**Warnings: **Based on history. Eventually, dark subjects may be discussed within this story. Bear this in mind when reading.

* * *

_**Ten Things **_

**_By: Dr. Cultural Studies_ **

* * *

**Delaware**

**George Caesar Jones**

**December 7, 1787**

* * *

**1.**

When he was found, he was among an indigenous tribe. The First Anglo-Powhatan War had been bloody and there had been many losses on both sides of the conflict. Since he had appeared in the brush of the trees, he had been housed among the natives of the area. They fed him, clothed him, taught him their languages, saw a goodness in him that he barely understood. Some knew that he was strange, though. He was light-skinned, pale as a spirit.

Fear was overwhelming and that anxiety was something that he could still remember even years later. The incoming Anglo settlers were encroaching on Powhatan territory and, in retaliation, the natives killed the colonial president—John Ratcliffe—and had attacked many of the newer settlements with little mercy. Despite these tensions, he was endlessly curious about these people who looked like him, these pale-faced newcomers. Still, he could never bring himself to leave those families who had cared from him since his birth. He couldn't bring himself to betray Powhatan and his people.

He was only a boy when his settlement was attacked.

Only six by human standards.

Time and the passage of it would forever confuse him.

When he was found, he did not have name. He was called "New One" by the native peoples, after Powhatan had taken him in as a ward. They knew what he was, what he represented. He knew as well, to some strange degree. And_ that_ was frightening enough. Even more frightening was when the white soldiers arrived with their loud sounds and their shouting voices in the dead of a calm August night. He had been sleeping when Powhatan had run into the _yehakin_ shouting for the family to run for their lives.

He could remember waking up to a man approaching him with a spear in his hand, a fierce glare on his face. And for the first time, he wondered if he truly could be killed by a human. Powhatan had told him many times before that such a feat was near impossible. What if he was the exception? Just as the man was about to attack, Powhatan intervened with a loud shout. In moments, he was just a little boy alone in a disaster—scared and frightened as he curled up in the corner of the large room.

Soldiers found him, a lone white child among the chaos. They didn't quite know what to do and he couldn't understand their language. After a while, with a couple men giving him small bits of bread and dried meat, a bearded man with kind eyes came up to him and crouched down. He knew what he was, that much was obvious. (Humans sometimes have a sense of national personifications.) And, as gently as possible, the man took him from that village. He covered his eyes so that he wouldn't see the carnage that had become of the people who took care of him.

Still, he could hear the screams.

The man who took him from the village?

His name was Thomas West—Third Baron De La Warr (1).

**2.**

He's always been the "big brother" figure to all of the States. As the "First State" it seemed like an obvious turn of events. He's physically the eldest and—some would say—mentally the eldest as well. Considering New York's exuberance and Hawaii's damaged innocence, he had his role cut out of him since day one. Despite popular belief, Day One was long before 1776. Cut out of parchment and ink, really. Some States acknowledge him as an elder brother (especially those that were members of the original thirteen); some States however, prefer to keep him at a safe distance.

Although he respects that distance, he has never understood why. He doesn't have the heart to ask, fearing what he might hear. Perhaps they could see darkness in his eyes that frightened them. He never pressures his younger brothers and sisters into anything though. He believes it is their right and their lot to learn as they live. He just tells them that he is always there if he's needed and leaves it at that.

What he doesn't know is that every single one of the States respect him for the mentoring role takes in their lives, even if they never say as much aloud.

**3.**

His personality isn't a stereotype—not technically. It's built, formed by the experiences he has had. There are certain schools of thought that might classify him as a stereotypical representation of his people. If he believed that, he wouldn't have a problem with it. No matter the positive or negative features, he's proud to represent his citizens, good or bad.

He's just your average man. A blue collar soldier. Who happens to love seafood. An American patriot from Delaware. And he happened to live forever.

All he's ever wanted to be was _normal_.

**4.**

Yes, he is the second smallest state by landmass. Despite common misconceptions, landmass does not _always_ equal physical anthropomorphic stature. Certainly, it is often correlated. However, the landmass of the states (and other commonwealth and confederated republics) sometimes has no bearing whatsoever on human representational size.

Simply stated: _he's not short_.

He's never been short. He will never be short. His height's rather normal for a man of his age (physical age, not representative age). At twenty-five, he stands at five six inches.

Perfectly standard_._

Of course, no one else (aside from Rhode Island) understands that and he is often made fun of for his supposedly "small" stature.

If he were a lesser man, he would just tell them to "suck it." America often egged on that desire, telling him to let loose for once in his life.

Delaware was _never_ a lesser man.

As it stood, he just kept quiet and ignored the comments as best he could.

**5.**

His delegation was deadlocked. He thought the world of all three of his representatives. Thomas Mc Kean was blunt and honest, honorable to a fault. George was loyal and steadfast—a man that saw value in order and state. And Caesar was a brilliant military man, the likes of which Delaware rarely saw. George Washington himself looked upon Caesar Rodney with respect. No matter how much he dearly cared for each of these men, who represented him and his interests, he could never get them to agree. George was endlessly supportive of British rule, and, while he disagreed with many acts of the British crown, he saw numerous benefits of being a British-governed colony. Both McKean and Rodney disagreed whole-heartedly.

Really, that night he should have known better. He should have just stayed in Philadelphia with the rest of the Colonies. Instead, he had gone back to his lands with Caesar to attend a Loyalist event in Dover.

When word arrived that the delegation had stalled in its agreement (and a subsequent negative vote would result in the failure of the Declaration), he raced to the horses with Caesar on his heels. The poor man was in no condition for the hard ride they were about to make. His dear friend had long since been wasting away with cancer and asthma. He rarely felt well. Still, as Delaware looked over his shoulder at the man, he could see nothing but determination. So, when Caesar disappeared into his carriage, Delaware swung himself up onto his horse.

And the journey began.

The distance between Dover and Philadelphia was great—almost impossible to surmount in a single night. Twenty-six leagues (eighty miles by modern standards). The summer heat was sweltering and the thunderstorms were truly some of the most violent Delaware had ever seen in his hundred years. He raced hard through it all. There was nothing that could stop him. Those storms were mere obstacles that he had to endure, like all other things in life. Through those storms, it occurred to him that he could have been (or probably was) racing toward his own death. With the Declaration of Independence, every person—mortal or immortal—would be considered a traitor to the British Crown.

And Arthur was cruel when it came to traitors.

When he arrived the next morning in Philadelphia, Delaware listened from the back of the hall as his people declared his intention for independence. He was soaking wet, muddy, and tired. There were no smiles, no laughter at how utterly ridiculous he looked. He just stared toward the front of the room and nodded toward a young boy that sat there, eyes wide.

Alfred nodded in return, in _thanks _(2).

**6.**

When California, Alaska, and Texas make fun of his height, he desperately wishes that they could have seen him during the Revolution. Pennsylvania had once told him that no one would dare mock his height if they had _ever_ seen him on the battlefield.

In his younger days, he was quite the badass.

Still is, if prompted into action.

**7.**

H. Jackson Brown, Jr. once said, "Remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something, loves something, and has lost something." Delaware could remember the first night he heard these words of wisdom. Tennessee had come up to visit. Thomas (Tennessee) had just gotten his second doctorate in applied museum sciences and was taking a large trip around the US as a hooding gift to himself. Seeing as how Delaware had three doctoral degrees (more than any other state or State), Tennessee had come up to compare notes. After downing quite a bit of Blue Moon, Thomas had spoken those words and followed it up with the obvious question:

"What're you afraid of, George?"

Delaware looked at his brother and pursed his lips, considering the question. "Spiders."

Shaking his head, Tommy laughed. "That's not what I meant. Sure you're scared of spiders, but…what do you really fear?" Tennessee had always been a philosophical drunk, even when he first became a State.

Considering it for a few moments, Delaware could only see a few viable answers—each one worse than the other. It was frightening to even think of those things, much less to say those fears aloud. Eyeing the way Tennessee was swaying in his lawn chair, he decided to answer, almost as if to test his own strength. "I'm…scared of not making a difference. That I will make the wrong decision and that history will remember me for it. I want history to remember me kindly whenever the time comes when I pass on from this world."

"You're scared of death?"

"Not death," Delaware murmured. He brushed the blond hair from his eyes and sighed. "I'm scared of being forgotten."

**8.**

He prefers not to talk about the wars, but he did fight in them.

Every now and then, he will tell a story about his time as a soldier. Very rare occasions.

Army. Navy. Air Force. Marines. Coast Guard.

Every branch at one point or another. He refuses to say which branch he liked the best.

Truth was, he loved them all.

Mostly he keeps those battle experiences to himself.

Because of this, Delaware can sometimes seem distant when discussing military-related subjects.

When he does speak up about something of that nature, everyone listens.

**9.**

"So, who have you loved? Have you ever had a girl or guy or…" Tommy slurred, shaking his head as he threw his head back. His eyes stared unfocused up at the clear stars above. The backyard of George's house was dark, with no ambient light to hide the stars. "You know, when I was a kid—they taught me that the stars were spirits. Everything was a spirit. I miss that, them. I miss Cherokee and Choctaw." Delaware sighed, taking a swig of his beer. There was something dangerously melancholic in his brother's tone of voice.

"They're still around."

"I know," Tennessee responded.

Seeing that his brother would say nothing more on the subject, Delaware decided to simply answer the question. How did the saying go? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Yes, he could see the truth in that statement. Most would probably agree with it, if they experienced the kind of love he had. It seemed so long ago, but he could remember everything. Each smile, each laugh. Each simple memory made. He could remember the way he had first heard, first heard of her feelings.

"Not all love is romantic," George cautioned. Tennessee rolled his head to look over. His eyes were half-lidded. He was starting to nod off. "They were a sweet family. Took me in when I had nothing. Took me in when I had nowhere else to go."

"You always got somewhere to go," Tommy murmured. "My house."

"It was the Great Depression, Thomas."

"Ah," the Southern State nodded. Well then, that explained everything.

His tired eyes closed and Delaware decided to lull him to sleep just as he did when the State was younger. He used to tell stories unlike anyone else. A skill he learned from Powhatan as a child. "I didn't really have a choice. I was walking down the dirt road just about ten miles from here. I had money, but I donated it to the food banks in the smaller towns. My people gave a lot of money to help others, always helping others. I'd survived outside before, in the wars. I could do it again. I could hunt and fish. I could rough my existence for a while until everything evened out. I knew that Georgia, Maine, and Texas were doing similar things. Everyone was struggling. No one could or would ask for help." He sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "So, I'm alone on this road. It's getting dark. I'm dirty, tired, and hungry. All of a sudden, this wagon clambers up. I was in a rural part of the land by then. There were two kids and two ragged parents. Asked if I needed a lift. They took me in, helped me survive. They didn't have the food to support me, no money to their names, but they couldn't just let me stumble down that road. They didn't know who I was or anything more than the fact that I was a hungry, homeless. I loved them when I saw them. I didn't even need to know their names. At that moment, they were Charity and Love. Their children were _Liberty and Independence_. I love them, even now. They've long been dead. Their grandchildren moved out of my lands. I haven't seen them in twenty years."

**10.**

Delaware didn't answer the implied question about loss, but he did murmur it to himself. "What have I lost?" He couldn't. He wouldn't.

It was too hard.

And Tennessee, still very much sober in his lawn chair, never opened his mouth or eyes to ask the question. He just kept quiet and listened to the cicadas in the trees whirring past midnight.

He didn't need to know. Or maybe he already did.

* * *

**Author's Section:**

Yes. I have been working on this for a while, off and on. This is based on a story called "Ten Things" from the Harry Potter fandom. It's been so long since I read it, but it really stuck with me. I cannot remember the author. I had a few people voice their desire for something based on the States and, while I tossed around some ideas, this one seemed to be the best. The updates on this particular story will come whenever I happen to write a new entry. We'll be progressing along the timeline of granted statehoods. Next up: Pennsylvania.

Be aware that this is based on history and my perception of how my State characterizations might react to that history. The United States have not always been united and they have not always seen eye-to-eye. They have lived long lives and have seen things that are beautiful and wonderful while also seeing terrible things. These are my headcanons. And I know that can be a dangerous field to walk. Please do not flame me for these characterizations.

I hope everyone enjoys this journey. And I hope that everyone will leave me a review or some feedback.

Thank you for reading and I wish you all the best!

**References:**

(1) This is the best estimate of how Delaware gained its name. The native peoples of the region were named after the river, which supposedly gained its name from the Baron de le Warr.

(2) This was more fascinating than the ride of Paul Revere, yet no one knows the story. If that man had not raced down from Delaware, then the motion would not have passed. Strange how just one man can change the course of history, but that does often seem the case.


	2. Pennsylvania

**Pennsylvania**

_Abigail Penn Jones_

**(December 12, 1787)**

* * *

**1.**

"Where are these Gentlemen from Massachusetts?" She glanced back to where the carriage was being carried by four strong-armed men, tilting her umbrella out of the way so that she could observe the scene a little clearer. A smile pulled at her thin lips when the old man caught her eye. He smirked wryly, as he always did, tipping his tri-fold hat in her direction. Pennsylvania could only imagine that he was having a grand old time. Turning back around, she didn't bother to hide her smile as she entered into the garden. This would prove entertaining at the very least. "What have you done with these Gentlemen from Massachusetts? Have you _stolen _these Gentlemen from Massachusetts?"

Ben had always been the type of man to command attention, even when she had met him years ago at a printing shop in Philadelphia. He was far older now, into his seventies, and yet his attitude had not changed by much. He had grown more outspoken and wiser. Even back then, when his hair was not gray and his face not quite so weathered, Abigail knew that he would change the world. And the way he entered the mid-afternoon soiree for the convention delegates…on thing was very clear: he commanded the attention of the nation at large.

"There they are…" She turned to watch him step from the hand-carriage, his cane tapping to the cobblestone entryway. Gray hair falling onto his jowls. For her part, she just smiled demurely and walked over to where a couple of her fellow States stood off to the side. Delaware and Virginia didn't even notice her approach. She turned ever so slightly, positioning the umbrella to block the sun, and took in the stunned expressions of the crowd. Most of these men had never experienced Franklin first hand before. It would be entertaining to see how each of them (as well as her fellow States) handled his intensity firsthand. "There they are…all the way from Boston."

"You're late," North Carolina stated while taking off his hat and performing a very formal bow. He was very studiously trying to ignore the raucous arrival of her mentor. She returned the gesture with a small dip in her stature, glancing surreptitiously toward the other States. They were transfixed, as everyone was, by the arrival of Benjamin Franklin. And quite an arrival he made.

"Are they not a shame on their country?" With a vague wave of his hand, Ben gestured toward where the wide-eyed Alfred Jones sat with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He looked utterly flabbergasted by Franklin's intense flouting of the Massachusetts representatives. "Are they not a disgrace to all civilized beings? Has not even the Reverend Ebenezer Slither declared them so?" He stopped momentarily, holding out his arm. With a quick nod in her direction, she realized that he wanted her by his side.

Pennsylvania hurried over, gently taking his arm as he moved forward. She realized why he had summoned her to his side. The delegate from South Carolina—Mr. Rutledge—was preparing to pounce and it seemed that Charles, her South Carolinian counterpart, was also prowling like a jungle cat. They were the focus of the opposition facing the bid for independence and thus, needed to be dealt with as smoothly as possible.

"They…" Her attention refocused on the delegates from Massachusetts. Her gaze settled particularly on Massachusetts himself. He looked a little uncertain, his bright green eyes shifting to John Adams and Thomas Jefferson every other second. Poor Samuel. He's been through quite a time. Everyone had. Ben shuffled forward some more and gestured toward the delegation. "They have violated the fundamental rule of warfare…which is always to let the British win! Did they not pursue the British Army with ungentlemanly haste after their cowardly victory at Concord?"

"Must you be so extreme, Doctor Franklin?" All attention shifted to John Rutledge. He flicked his cane, shifting his weight between his feet. Abigail had never seen such a dandy in all her life. The man was arrogant beyond belief. At least, she personally couldn't stand him.

"I'm an extreme moderate, Mr. Rutledge. I believe anybody not in favor of moderation and compromise ought to be castrated." Pennsylvania hid her laughter behind her hand, trying desperately to show off the image of a demure woman. She caught sight of South Carolina's uncomfortable stare and simply lost her composure. She let out a laugh and shook her head. Ben leaned forward to Mr. Rutledge as if sharing a secret. "And that all of this," he gestured toward the space between his legs, "should be sent down to the parliament for they seem to need…How shall I put it? Scones."

Rutledge (and South Carolina for that matter) gave a small bow as if he were conceding the point. He walked away as quickly as he could with Charles in tow. She couldn't blame them. Very few could hold their own against Ben. Herself very much included.

Ben harrumphed, patting her hand as he ambled toward the Massachusetts delegates. Abigail looked toward where Massachusetts himself was grinning. And she felt pride well in her chest. This was only the beginning, but it was the start of a partnership that would change the fate of an entire nation. Her gaze skittered over to where America was standing with John Hancock, the man who had taken it upon himself to explain Doctor Franklin's crude humor. It was a strange bunch of people, but they would get the job done well enough. (1)

**2.**

Yes, she has a large population of Amish citizens.

And she cherishes every single one of them. They're often forgotten by the general public at large, but she always makes it a point to visit. Something about those townships takes her back to simpler times. Not just the lack of technology, but the mentality of her past. There was once a time when she had no major cities, when she was just a young Colony built on the backs of those seeking religious freedom. Among the Amish, she could feel that way again.

Every so often, she would be greeted warmly, even if the culture itself was very distrusting of outside folk. They knew her nature, knew that she had been alive since the time of their ancestors. She was a story to them, a legend. Because of that, she had their respect. Though it would be expected that they would fear her due to her immortal disposition, they did not. She was one of them, the only one who could and would venture out into the world. She often kept in close touch with the Amish children whom she had come to know, if they ever needed help during their Rumspringa. The parents—caring deeply for their kids—would secretly ask her to keep watch over their Leahs and Johns while they experienced the English world.

Yes, she does take guilty pleasure in watching Breaking Amish. No, the show is not accurate in the least. Abigail can't help but to get a laugh out of it.

**3. **

She and Alfred followed after Grace as she held onto her father's arm. She was shaking, anyone could see that. Pennsylvania couldn't blame her. She had been famous for years but Manaco had a thing for pomp and circumstance (though not nearly as much as Britain). They walked through the bright Mediterranean sun, between the lines of French, British, and American naval guards. It wouldn't be too long until they reached the cathedral where the wedding was to take place. She reached forward ever so slightly and brushed her hand with America's. He shot her a wide smile, obviously proud.

Abigail had never really given much thought to marriage. She had been resigned to her lonely life since the nineteenth century. The life of a State or Nation is always riddled with loneliness. Though she never let anyone know about how isolated she felt, Pennsylvania constantly struggled with the idea of being alone her whole life.

When she saw the way Prince Rainier (or just Rainier, as he had asked to be called) looked at Grace, she wanted that herself. She wanted to fall in love, get married, have children. She wanted to live that dream.

For the remainder of her time in Monaco, staying at Monaco's beautiful country home, Pennsylvania tried to keep to herself. She couldn't bring herself to face America—who wouldn't understand her desires for an intimate loving relationship. He was a brother figure and her brothers never understood that want. Not that she had the courage to speak to anyone about it. And Monaco wasn't the best to talk about such things with…

When she finally left her room at the mansion, mind still lost on all that could have been in her life, she crashed into a butler who worked at the Nation Mansion on the coast of the Mediterranean. As soon as she saw him, she knew. She knew that she would never find anyone else, never love anyone more.

His name was Louis, a human from the south of France.

He was wonderful, dear, sweet, kind, handsome.

Everything she had ever wanted.

And she fulfilled his dreams as well.

They were married April 19, 1957—a year after their meeting.

Princess Grace and her husband attended the wedding.

**4. **

She's smart. Very smart. And she loves to collect books. Everyone has always been very well aware of that fact. In the past, the other States were a little bitter toward her bright understanding of complicated subjects with actual education. Engineering came naturally to her, as did invention and philosophy. She gained all of her extended knowledge from books and from pamphlets that made the circles around the colony before the Revolution.

Her love of the written word was so obvious that Benjamin Franklin decided to start a library just for her. It grew to so much more than that though. They named it the "Library Company of Philadelphia" and it would become the oldest library in the United States. Abigail herself worked to improve the collects, adding her private stashes of books and documents to the huge collections.

One of the greatest contributions she made to the library came in 1920 when she handed over her first edition copy of Moby-Dick under a pseudonym.

To this day, Abigail works as a librarian in suburban Philadelphia.

**5. **

Her favorite dessert is the banana split.

Her people created it and she maintains that it is the best dessert in the world.

New York (not so) respectfully disagrees.

**6. **

She was found in the forests when she was little more than a baby by a young mother of the Lanape. She can barely remember that time. There were mounds, built high to the skies and thousands of people. Over the course of time, with the arrival of the White and the invaders, the mound culture disappeared and the tribes took over. She came to live with a group called the Shawnee and their Immortal.

Shawnee was a beautiful woman with dark skin and black hair. She was kind and careful in her mannerisms, always caring for the small Nation. Though she knew what the little girl would one day become, she loved her just the same for she saw no ill-will in the child. After all, an Immortal never has a choice in their nature.

Pennsylvania only remembers a sweet smile and a warm embrace.

She doesn't know that Shawnee is waiting for her call in Oklahoma, hoping that one day that doe-eyed little girl will remember her once great presence in her life. Until then, she waits.

Abigail never calls.

**7. **

William Penn found her as she wondered away from the tribe. He named her Abigail, after a daughter of his that had died in infancy. He also named her after the way he had found her, giving a bit of himself in the process. She was found among the trees. Being a learned man, he named her "Penn—" "—sylvania." _Sylvania_ means woods in Latin. From that day until the Revolution, her name was "Abigail Penn Woods," to avoid suspicion.

She changed it to "Abigail Penn Jones" after independence was declared, in a show of solidarity with the rest of the original thirteen colonies. She kept "Penn" to honor her adoptive father, a man who taught her that she should tolerate anyone of any creed and to support them in the kindest way possible.

**8. **

It's not something she likes to talk about. Her husband was the only one to ever know her memories of those torturous three days. He was the only one who knew that she was out there, among the men as they were slaughtered. He was the only one who ever knew that she was shot, that had seen the scar. She never told anyone in her family, not even America; about the terrible things she had witness on that battlefield. Sometimes, she swears that she can't remember it.

But she always can.

Gettysburg.

She still has the scar. She will always have that scar, resting just over her collarbone. An enduring reminder of the 51,000 soldiers that lost their lives on her land. She will always remember staring into the eyes of the enemy as he shot a hole in her chest—Alabama had tears in his eyes as he did it. She will always remember the way she fired back at her brother before falling to her knees, kneels squelching in the blood-soaked earth. The nightmares still haunt her.

She hasn't fired a gun since.

**9. **

She has three dogs, three beautiful Great Danes. And she loves them as she would children. Since she has always been deprived of that option, she instead lavishes her love onto her canine companions. They are her dearest possessions, her family outside of the States. When she had first moved into her own home, around the dawn of the twentieth century, she bought a single dog to ease her loneliness. His name was "Virtue" (or "Virty") and he was the light of her life.

Virty died in 1917, of old age.

She got two more Great Danes, "Liberty" and "Independence." They died while she was off in the Pacific during the war.

She didn't get dogs again until she met her husband. And, after years of trying for a child, they settled for three dogs. They were named after their predecessors. And they were eventually buried along with their siblings in the field behind her house. She leaves flowers there for them all.

To this day, she takes in Great Danes and they provide her comfort in the hardest of times. They ease her solitude and provide unconditional love when it seems that all else is against her.

**10. **

Her human husband, Louis, passed away on December 12, 2005 at the age of 81.

They had been married 48 years.

She had not aged a day.

He died of old age.

She misses him.

* * *

**Author's Section**

In answer to questions, yes. Thank you for asking! I will be writing one of these for _every_ State. They will be in order of statehood. So, up next is New Jersey, I think. Every state will have a post.

Thank you for the wonderful feedback, favorites, and follows!

I hope everyone enjoyed. Please leave me your thoughts. See you next time!

(1) Scene adapted from John Adams, the middle miseries. You should check it out because it is awesome.


	3. New Jersey

**New Jersey**

_Susannah Mary Jones_

**December 18, 1787**

* * *

**1.**

During the 1970s, she had a rebellious streak. It was the first time that she decided to drop all her obligations and disappear. Years before, in the 1950s, New York had done the same and gotten away with it. Every now and then, States will live in obscurity for about a decade or so—just to get away from everything and everyone. With immortal life, the everyday workings of living can become monotonous and Susie had decided that enough was enough. She had been suffering through the issues with the Vietnam fiasco, trying to remedy the situation in any way she could, but nothing seemed to work. After what happened with Ohio on May 4, 1970, New Jersey knew she had to get away. She let Alfred know that she was quitting college (for the second time) and that she was moving to Newark to work at a diner. He stared at her for a moment, blue eyes wide and forlorn. Then, he told her to go and save a space for him at the counter every Wednesday at noon.

Despite the complaints of several Nations and States, she assumed the name "Susie Livingston" and rented an apartment about two blocks from Lou's Diner. She worked every day (except Sunday) from seven to four. During the evenings, she would bake pies in the kitchen. And, on Wednesdays, America would walk through the diner door. Bells would jingle as he entered, bomber jacket zipped up to cover his military uniform. It still didn't stop him from getting some dirty looks every now and again. He would take the third stool to the left and would wait patiently while she poured him coffee.

"George's worried about you. Says you haven't called him in a few weeks."

"Of course he's keeping track," Susie sighed. "I'm a grown woman. I can take care of myself, damn it. You know he's overbearing. He knows I can take care of myself."

"Never said you couldn't, Jersey." He shifted, brushing his blond hair from his eyes. "Out of everyone who has done this whole 'living as a human' thing, you're the only one I haven't worried about." She leveled him a disbelieving stare and he shrugged, setting the menu on the counter. "Well, you and Delaware. Let's be honest though. The dude's got three doctorates and the only time he disappeared was during the Depression. Plus he was a soldier."

Seeing that he wasn't going to tell her that he wasn't even concerned about New York's period of humanity, she stepped away and went to place his order with the cook. He always ordered the same thing. A burger with extra pig, extra cheese, and some baklava. When she returned to the counter, she placed her hands on her hips. "How's Ohio? I haven't talked to her since last month." Ohio was the person she was most concerned about. With everything going on.

"She's…Well, you know her economy isn't doing too hot."

"Stop avoiding it. You just had another protest yesterday. Did you think I wouldn't hear about it? I may be a little out of touch, but I'm not completely out of the loop. I read in the paper that over one hundred thousand turned out for a march on Washington. You know Ohio is still in mourning after Kent State1."

"You're right. She's still hurting. As for my protests, there were no injuries, thank God." Alfred took off his glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes. Meanwhile, Susie glanced toward the flower-ridden customers who had just entered the diner. They scanned the place, eyes lingering on the back of Alfred's bomber jacket for a few moments before they chose a seat nearby. The tension in her state was just like any other. The war was tearing the country to shreds and the government wasn't helping the issues either. Not after what happened at Kent only a few months before. "Listen," her attention shifted to America. "Please don't go to any protests."

"Why not?" Her tone was very much like a petulant child and she couldn't help but to feel a little immature. She was nearly two hundred years old, but if someone ever tried to control her freedom—outside of certain circumstances—she turned into a freedom fighter. It seems that a lot of people forget how instrumental she was in the Revolution. "It's my decision. I'll protest if I want, America. And you can do a thing to stop me." Her accent was getting thicker with her anger.

"I get that. I just…don't want anything to happen to you."

Her mouth snapped shut and she withheld her anger, swinging around to get his food. She had work to do anyway. When she returned a few minutes later, Alfred was turned around in his chair. His hand reached for a daisy that one of the kids was holding out to him, a conflicted expression on his face. A smile broke on her face, despite all her earlier frustration. There were still moments of beauty, even in the most turbulent times. Sometimes, she lost sight of that.

**2.**

There's this story about how Ship Bottom got its name.

The story goes that in the early hours of March 17, 1817. The captain of a schooner was navigating through a thick fog when he heard screams and cries for help. He ran to the edge of his ship, yelling for silence on his boat. The haunting screams came from the direction of the shoreline, though no one onboard the schooner could see land. Concerned and frightened, but unable to turn around fast enough to render aide, the captain yelled across to another schooner that was headed north up the channel. It was then that Captain Stephen Willets became involved.

He was a young man with a sense of honor bigger than the ocean itself. He and a few of his crew boarded a small life boat and rowed along the outer sand bar for several hours searing for the endangered ship. It was common knowledge amongst sailors that the shoreline was treacherous in dense fog. And, two hours later, they happened upon the overturned hull of a ship. Corpses hung from the rigging and bobbed in the freezing water. Blue lips and limbs.

When one of the would-be rescuers climbed aboard, he heard something under his feet—a tapping. With a shout, the work began to free whoever was trapped inside the sinking ship. After nearly three hours, a woman was pulled from the hole that the captain and his men had made.

The story goes that the young woman spoke no English. No one knew her name or the name of the ship. That was only partially true. Susannah was her name. Susannah M. Jones and she pleaded with Captain Willets and his crew to keep her identity a secret. Her immortality was the only thing that kept her alive when her friends were killed in that ship wreck. She had been working on that schooner for nearly six months when the hull struck the bar after a human friend had suggested that she get away from the politics of Philadelphia.

The reason they (the crew who saved her from the wreckage) were convinced of her good intentions was that she drew a cross on the ground and declared herself as the State of New Jersey. Captain Willets, being luckily familiar with Arthur Kirkland, understood her position.

That had been her last time on a ship.

Susannah never sailed again, not even in modern times. Captain Willets and his men kept New Jersey's secret until they all eventually perished.

To this day, New Jersey lives in the borough nearby—Ship Bottom. Of all her houses around her lands, her row house in Ship Bottom was the only one she called a "home." Every year, she will hold a private memorial service for the men and women who lost their lives in that shipwreck. No one knows.

**3.**

New Jersey is afraid of water. For reasons mentioned above. No other States or Nations know of the shipwreck. New Jersey intends to keep it that way.

She thinks it makes her look weak.

When the storm came, she had to confront that fear. The waters overcame the shoreline.

If anything, the hurricane has made her more fearful of water.

She still struggles with this fear.

**4.**

During the First and Second World Wars, Susannah worked in a factory just outside of Philadelphia. She had long possessed the mindset that women could do anything just as good as any man. Earlier that same century, she had marched with other women for the right to vote. And, although America wouldn't allow her to set foot on the battlefield, she did everything she possibly could to help with the war effort, short of joining the Armed Forces. Her hard work and that of the others working in her factories across the state resulted in 6.8 percent of the total U.S. military armaments produced.

Her industrialized economy made it possible for her to become a principal location of defense during the Cold War with Russia. Even the world's first nuclear-powered cargo ship was launched from Camden. And she had been there when it happened. Hell, she helped to _design_ it.

Massachusetts had always called her a "badass," but she had never really understood how true that was. After all, New Jersey often kept her achievements to herself and she rarely had the confidence to declare herself anything other than a State.

**5.**

Contrary to widely popular belief, her capital is not Newark. And it is certainly not Atlantic City or Jersey City. Despite her normally relaxed nature, there are some very basic things that will make New Jersey take on the persona of a loud, foul-mouthed Jersey woman—a habit she had acquired from spending a large amount of time with Romano around the turn of the century when millions of his people flooded into the region. It was natural that she would acquire some of his habits. Her accent would grow thicker and her mannerisms would become far more pronounced.

"Trenton is my damn capital, ya stupid fool. Get that through ya thick skull!"

**6.**

Jersey Shore. She watches it when she's feeling depressed or down. She'll put on her flannel pajamas that Maine bought her, curl up on her couch with the fire blazing in the furnace, eating a cannoli from one of her fantastic bakeries, and watch entire seasons in one sitting. She owns them all on DVD. It's a prank present from New York. Many view the show as a disgrace, but she doesn't. Susannah, having met the people in the show on various occasions, saw it for what it was…entertainment. They weren't as foolish as the characters they portrayed. Furthermore, many of her people did prescribe to that lifestyle. How could she judge them when they were a part of her?

Even though she doesn't hate the show (actually she rather enjoys it), she does get annoyed when her fellow State make fun of her. It's an issue of pride and New Jersey doesn't take well to insults.

Whenever Georgia joins in, New Jersey never fails to mention Honey Boo Boo.

And then Jersey will smile—a very cruel smile. It's only then that other States remember that she's not as sweet as she seems. She was a woman who led battles in the Revolution alongside General Washington.

**7.**

She adopted her human name after her dear human friend, William Livingston, passed away at the age of 66. Up until that time, she had been called "Jersey" by most people. It was only William who saw that she wanted and needed a name of her own. He was on this deathbed when he placed a time-gnarled hand on her young fingers. They had known each other for nearly forty years and she had not aged a single day. His whitened eyes turned to her and he smiled slightly, lips quivering with fear. She was scared as well, heart thundering in her stomach. It was what she always feared. She was finally losing the first human that she cared most about. America told her that it was going to be painful, but she didn't expect it would hurt so much. "Sus…Susannah."

"She's on her way, William. Just hold on. She'll be here soon."

Susannah was the name of his wife and eldest daughter. He had to be asking for one of them. His head shook though, weakly. There was once a time when he would have been so vigorous in his movements. He had always been so full of energy, so full of life. He had always been _so brave_. And, here he was. Dying. It made her sick. She didn't want to live forever. She wanted to die, too. "Y-Your name. Susan—nah." Her eyes widened and she reached forward to place a hand on his cheek. His breath was rattling.

She had watched many people die. Soldiers, mostly.

His eyes widened and he looked upward, toward the far corner of the room. The tension melted from his body. For the first time in days, he looked peaceful. New Jersey looked toward the corner of the room and saw nothing. Just the light of the morning sun cresting over the hilltop. Then, he just…stopped.

Through her sobs, New Jersey declared that she now had the human name "Susannah Livingston Jones." She wouldn't fully begin using that name until William's wife and daughter later passed away. To this day, her name means more to her than anything in the world.

**8.**

She had been living with Lenape until the white men came on their clouds. At least, those billowing sheets of white fabric looked like clouds. She was young, though. Very young. She didn't quite understand it all. She didn't understand why Lenape was scared or why the people were saying that she should be left for the pale-ones to find. She didn't understand why the people looked at her with fear, commenting on the light tone of her skin. They called her a "ghost." The villagers often kept their distance, only Lenape would willingly care for her.

She didn't want to be left alone and she clung to Lenape's arm as tightly as she could. Her tear-stained face did nothing to stop the fear that covered the Native Nation's features. He sat her down and knelt in front of her, brushing the water from her chubby cheeks. He cooed soft melodies, trying to calm her as best he could. Then, he was gone. And she couldn't understand it. One moment, he had been brushing his hand through her corn-yellow ringlet curls and the next… she was left in a field alone. Her wails were loud enough to attract the closest settlers. A man named Berwald took her back to the nearby village of settlers, calmly telling her that she was safe.

Somewhere deep down, she knew that Lenape had not wanted to let her go. She can still remember to this day that as the tall blonde man—Sweden, she later learned— took her away from that field of poppies, she could see her father crying in the shade of the trees before disappearing.

"_Xhoo lah-pee knay-wuhl_," she whimpered into the arm of the invader.

In Lenape's language, there were no "goodbyes" only… "I will see you again."

She never saw him again.

**9.**

May 6, 1937. She had been in Germany for a meeting with the Germanic Lands concerning the tension that were building in the European continent. The meeting had been somewhat of a success. Jersey was one of the best States to enter negotiations due to her high population of German immigrants. She had already entered negotiations with the Italian twins as well. She had entered the airship in Frankfurt am Main, ready to return to the United States. It was a direct flight to her lands, meaning that she didn't have to land in New York to get home. When she saw the familiar skyline of Manhattan, she knew she was almost home. She could go back to living her quiet life until America called on her again for a favor.

Then, everything went to hell.

It was early evening, the sun just beginning to sink to the horizon. She was standing by a port side window when she saw the first flames. Yellow-red, bright as the sinking sun. Those flames jumped and danced as if on air—or gas. Then, the ground was rushing toward them. She stumbled, her head catching on a nearby table. Screams erupted from all around and she could hear the terrible crackling sound of fire. Fear thundered through her chest. The mortals on board! So many—they couldn't survive this! It couldn't have been more than thirty-seconds.

What happened after those thirty seconds, New Jersey has never repeated.

Melting skin. Burning bodies.

Even today, when she hears of the "Hindenburg," she cringes and refuses to talk about what she saw.

She still has nightmares of the experience.

**10.**

She stands among the crowds, looking up at the ghost lights. It's haunting, beautiful. Haunting. Chilling. Sobering. Her hand grazes over the carved names of the memorial. For the first time in a while, tears enter her eyes. She's strong. She's a very strong woman, but...A phantom pain carves itself through her chest, just as it did that day and her body folds forward. She's strong, but this...A hand comes to rest on her shoulder and she turns to see New York's face. John has no tears in his eyes, nothing more than a frown on his face. And she realizes then that ten years have passed. Ten years since then. It feels like yesterday. It feels like no time has passed. He looks upward and she follows his gaze to where two beautiful buildings once stood. Full of life, full of people. Their people. Men, women, children, animals. Every sort, every creed. Everyone. As her chest continues to ache, she ignores the pain and puts on a mask of courage. Standing among that crowd, she refuses to appear weak. She hates weakness. She'll be strong. Because her people are strong.

New York never lets go of her shoulder and, for hours, she never looks away from those ghost lights that cut a path to Heaven through the clouds.

* * *

**Author's Section:**

Hope everyone enjoyed getting to know New Jersey. I'll have Georgia up in a few weeks.

Please leave me some feedback!

(1) Kent State Massacre- four students were killed at an anti-war protest. May 1970.


	4. Georgia

**Georgia**

**James "Jimmy" Henry Jones**

**January 2, 1788**

* * *

**1.**

"I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, Cherokee. It's not about a land-grab. You made a deal. You gotta stick to it. Now, get on up out of here." Georgia held a rifle in his right hand and gestured toward where a caravan of covered wagons was waiting down the dirt road. The wide-eyed look on Cherokee's face was nothing short of devastating, but James kept his emotions distant and under control. It wasn't fair what was happening, but there was nothing that could be done. And Georgia was overwhelmingly influenced by his government. He could feel the sadness and the despair of the Cherokees that called him home, but he could do nothing to help them. Therefore, he pulled on a mask and stared unblinkingly at Cherokee, or Tah-chee as he was known to his people.

"They'll die," Tah-chee stated as his fear and hurt melted away behind an emotionless mask that mirrored the expression on Georgia's face. "My people will die like this. You can't treat me the same way you treated Creek and—"

"Gold was found in Dahlonega. What did you expect to happen?" Georgia gave a gesture with his hands and the gun rattled. Cherokee went very still, cautiously peering at the gun. "It was only a matter of time, my friend—"

"Do not call me your friend. You betrayed me." Cherokee's anger was searing and sickening. James could see the conflict in his eyes. Like him, the Indian Nation was facing severe unrest in his population. A small group signed the treaty that the whole nation needed to agree to, all for the sake of money. Now, each and every Cherokee was doomed to forced expulsion to lands west of the Mississippi. "You know that I was tricked. I never meant to sign that treaty. You tricked me and now you have condemned my people to death."

"You'll have money and food!"

"We'll have nothing and you know it!" Cherokee yelled in return. "We will have no homes, no food, no crops, no money. We will have nothing. You are sending us to our deaths and you act as though it is a fair trade. For what? Land? Gold?" Cherokee scoffed. "You are a State, Georgia. None of these things mean anything to you. One day, when years and years have passed, you will regret this. You will regret your lies and cheating, your unfair trickery. You will regret your complacency while we were forced out of _our lands_." To this Georgia scoffed. "I have been here for millennia, before you were a twinkle in an eye."

Although he could understand Cherokee's plight, at least his people were being fairly relocated. It was a fair trade. All he wanted was the land and the gold. Though the Cherokee were a part of his population, they were not officially and—Well, it was a difficult situation all around. Cherokee was a completely sovereign Nation. Besides, he signed the Treaty of New Echota. The government would safely see the Cherokee people to their lands in the new territory of Oklahoma. "We'll see about that then." Cherokee merely stared at him and then nodded his head in some sort of sad acceptance.

"Fine," Tah-chee sighed. He reached down and straightened his tie and jacket, placing a top hat upon his head. Georgia barely kept his mouth shut at the way Cherokee raised his chin and looked down his long nose. "You are a child, Georgia. I remember when I first found you in that river as a small boy, long before Spain came with his explorers. You were once so innocent and full of life. Now, you are nothing more than the prop of a corrupt government. One day, you will look back upon your life and regret things that you could have done differently. I will tell you now, this is one of those moments." Squaring his shoulders, Cherokee gave Georgia one final glance over and turned on his heel.

That was the last time that Georgia ever saw Cherokee face-to-face.

**2.**

"Once again we'd like to welcome y'all to Dixie Speedway, Georgia's premier three eighths of a mile clay-banked racing oval. Y'all know it's Saturday night here in Woodstock, Georgia and wha'd'y'all think we're up to this evenin'? Well, I'll tell you what! It's racin'. Yessiree, here tonight starting at seven, in twenty minutes or so, we'll have the national anthem sung by Miss Laney Pearse then we're gonna crank it up! We're gonna go racing!" The amplified voice of Randy McDowell rang across the space, echoing over the pine trees and excited crowds. The buzz of energy was contagious. "There's nothin' quite like a dirt track race, ladies and gentlemen! Hold onto your hats 'cause it's about to get crazy!" The announcer gave a chuckle and the old speakers crackled out.

The sound of revving engines was deafening, Jimmy could barely hear himself think. There was a strange sort of calm in the air as the clay-covered cars circled the track, round and round and round. He watched them follow behind the water truck, packing down the mud as they went. A few of the young guns would slip and slide through the mud, tracking themselves down into the mud pit at the bottom of the incline. They'd stay there, spinning their tires, until one of the older drivers would push them out again. This was one way Georgia liked to spend his Saturday nights.

This particular Saturday was special though, a real hootenanny. It was the annual Fourth of July celebration. The whole gang had come in town for it. Alabama, Florida, Mississippi, North and South Carolina. Hell, even Tennessee had driven down from Nashville for the night. The real kicker though? Georgia felt a grin pull at his lips as he turned to where Alfred was sitting with wide, childlike eyes taking in every sight and sound. The real kicker was that America himself had accepted the invitation this year.

Still smirking, Georgia turned back around and focused his attention on a particular car that was idling in the pits. There was a strange, unbridled excitement that coursed through his veins. Adrenaline was something he felt addicted to—from his younger years into modern times. It was also a flutter in his chest, an uncertainty in fate that appealed to him in the strangest way.

Uncertainty.

Yeah, that was what he liked.

Immortality was makin' him crazy.

Standing from his seat on the concrete bleachers, he brushed his hands on his jeans and then lifted both hands to run his fingers through his mop of brown curls. "I ain't hangin' out here all night, Bama." Beside him, Alabama looked up and raised a single brow. There was a conspirator's tone that entered his voice as Georgia leaned over. "See the number four down there? Late model car? Red, white, and blue? Says 'Let's roll' on the spoiler?"

Alabama's jaw dropped and she looked hurriedly over her shoulder toward where Alfred was shouting something about the water truck and the cars stuck in the mud. Seeing that the Nation wasn't listening, Bama leaned forward and gave a cautiously excited grin. "You're gonna do it then? You're gonna race? Are you _insane_? You could be—"

"Killed? Ha!" Alabama shot him a look. "Nah, I'm just…uh, adventurous, ya know? Yeah, that's what we'll call it. Adventurous." Georgia shrugged his shoulders and gave a small jaunty wave toward a little girl that was giggling a couple rows down. She hid her face in her mother's shoulder. He grinned. "You how I like me some adventure, Bama."

"Yeah? Well, you're bat shit."

Georgia snorted and stood up, slipping his baseball cap over his mop of hair. "America rarely comes down here anyway and I'm one hell of a driver. You know that. The last time Alfred was down here, we were cleaning up the mess after the Centennial bombing." Mary shook her head at him while he gave her an excited grin. "C'mon, Bammer! Have some fun with it!" She just shrugged her shoulders and sat back onto the concrete, shooting a surreptitious glance toward where Alfred was laughingly tossing a football back and forth with some kids. "He almost looks normal now, doesn't he?"

"It's only been about ten months since…Look at North and South over there. And Tennessee. It almost feels normal."

"That's why it's gonna be a good Fourth of July, Bama!" Georgia's smile seemed a bit forced. How could it not be though? After all, this was the first Fourth celebration since the September attacks. June 29th. In a few days, all of the States would congregate in Washington D.C. for the celebrations. The race track always held its fireworks display on the weekend before the Fourth. "I'm gonna race the doors off of my car! Maybe that'll get America's blood pumpin' again!" As quickly and as quietly as he could, James slipped away to enter the pits and—when the green flag dropped a couple hours later—he raced to his first win in twenty years.

Georgia just quietly accepted the hug of gratitude that Alfred gave him after the race, enduring Alabama's punch on the arm with a good-natured grin. It was his own way of coping and his own way of showing honor. He simply wishes he could have done more.

That race is still discussed to this day.

**3.**

He loves to drink Coca-Cola and sweet tea and lemonade.

All of that "pop" and "soda" and "soda-pop" nonsense is lost on him.

Every drink that comes out of a fountain is a "coke."

Every drink that comes in a can is a "coke."

No one can tell him otherwise.

Yeah, that's right. All the rest of y'all are nuts.

It's a coke. It has always been coke. It will always be coke.

**4.**

He tried to keep breathing. No matter what, he knew he had to keep breathing. All around him, men and boys lay dead in the tall grass and weeds, blood coating the khaki and gray uniforms. Some of his soldiers were no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Just children. _Children._ His stomach was throbbing with pain as his hand moved to cover the bullet wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and sticky. The heat of the sun pressed against his face like a hot iron, searing tanned cheekbones. For the first time in a long while, he felt fear. Ultimate, all-consuming fear. Eventually, the earthen fortress as Kennesaw Mountain would fall.

Years before, he thought himself invincible. He thought himself indestructible. He could fall to no one, would bow to no one. He could make his own calls and decisions. His will was strong and unbreakable. Yet here he was on a battlefield in his own lands. Here he was, so very much _breakable_. The Union forces were pushing him farther and farther back. There was no stopping them, no stopping their war path. And, if all the intelligence was correct, Sherman was showing no mercy. Soon, even Atlanta would fall.

His people were determined, though. They would not break under the relentless assault of the Yankee forces. Just after sunrise, the bombardment began. Screams and yells resounded all around. He glanced over the top of the trench, holding his side as he did so. It was almost noon. The sun was high in the sky.

"Rally," he choked out. "Rally! On me! Do not let them pass! Do not let those Yanks pass!" Soldiers heard his call and, feeling the compulsion within them, they gathered around and began firing volleys of bullets toward the encroaching Union forces. Georgia knew that many of them would die in this battle or ones like it. Still, they fought with him, for him. "Our homes! Our people! Atlanta is their goal! Not one Yank beyond this line! Not one. We'll fight all day, but they are not passing this mountain!" His people yelled in agreement.

And he could not let those yanks pass. He wouldn't give up or give in until he had nothing left.

On September 2nd, 1864, three months after the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, the city of Atlanta fell to Sherman's forces. Georgia himself withdrew to the southeast along the railroad. It was a hopelessness that he never wanted to feel again. He was captured in Savannah and delivered by Sherman himself to Lincoln and Alfred. Without mercy, he had been thrown at the feet of his captors, stumbling painfully to his knees on the hardwood floor of the White House, and never once did he flinch. Never once did Georgia bat an eye in front of others. It was only when he was alone that he allowed himself to feel the burning of his lungs and the ache of his stomach.

Even today, he bears the scars from that campaign.

Even today, he wishes he could have done more to stop it.

Even today, he hasn't forgotten.

**5.**

He _loves_ fried chicken. Really, he just loves chicken. He's the chicken capital of the world, after all.

In fact, he is skilled at cooking fried chicken.

During the slow days at the firehouse where he works, he will fry up the meanest chicken you have ever tasted in a cast iron skillet he got during the Civil War. His fellow firefighters fight over the last piece every time.

Georgia's an excellent cook and his recipes have appeared in several Firehouse Recipe Books. Once or twice, he's appeared on the Food Network. Every time, Alfred records it on his DVR and calls James the next day to gush.

**6.**

Georgia has a myriad of degrees, but he currently works as a firefighter in downtown Atlanta. Something about seeing smoke over the Atlanta skyline makes him nervous. He's seen the city in smoke one too many times. Once was really enough.

James is also working on a degree in medical engineering.

_He's far from a dumb country hick, despite what most might think_.

**7.**

Robert called him from the campaign trail. Georgia had anticipated the ringing of that wall phone, waiting on pins and needles in the living room of his Sandy Springs home. There was a nervous sort of excitement in his stomach when he heard the young timbre of Robert's voice and the worried tone in the background. John was concerned, too, it seemed. Everyone was concerned for the Civil Rights leader that had been locked upon in his prison.

What most of the States didn't realize? Georgia tried to stop his authorities from arresting Dr. King after that sit-in at Rich's, but he just didn't have enough power to affect any change. All he could do was try and keep the civil rights leader from injury. Even that didn't work so well.

"James? Jimmy! That you, buddy?"

"Howdy, Robert. I was wonderin' when you'd call. Tell me you're gonna pressure the authorities. I can't do anything. My hands are tied."

"Figured as much. Massachusetts told me that you don't have enough power to get him out. What's been happening?" Robert was a good friend, someone that Georgia felt like he could trust. His brother, John, as well. They were both Kennedys. John was running for president and they had met him years ago during a vacation to his lands. After that, they kept in touch over the years. If anyone could get Dr. King out of the Georgia prisons, then it would be the Kennedy brothers. "You been okay?"

"Feelin' sick. These riots and sit-ins and protests. It's all the social unrest. I'm not half as ill as America, I tell you what, but it's not been pleasant. We're all feelin' it and I ain't complainin'." Robert gave a thoughtful noise and Georgia leaned into the doorframe. "Get him out of there, Bobby. I ain't got no ill will toward 'im. You know I love all my citizens the same and you know that all this ain't gonna end pretty. We know that. Known it since day one. Get him out of there and I'll make sure he's as safe as I can. You know some of my people…aren't too friendly toward—"

"I know, Georgia. I know." Robert sighed. "John's got an idea on how to get Dr. King out. Think you can get us in touch with the right people?"

"Course I can," Jimmy nodded.

"Thanks for giving us a call, Jim." Georgia lowered his head and wondered if he would be able to sleep. It seemed like it was a nonstop struggle living day-to-day. It seemed like nothing would ever be easy. Pressing his head into the wood of the door, he felt the pulsating headache abate for a moment. "I heard that you marched."

"They're my people, Bobby. Of course I did."

"That wasn't disbelief in my tone, Georgia. That was pride. You keep doing what you've been doing down there, Jim. Stay strong. Someday we'll have equality for everyone. You watch." Unable to string words together, Georgia just nodded. It was the first time in a long while that he had heard any words of support or praise. Most—particularly the other States— just assumed that he stood with those favoring segregation without considering his personal views on the subject. He had very different opinions. "Be brave down there, Jim. Everything will get better."

"Massachusetts tell you that, Bobby?"

"No, you did. When John and I were little. When that storm hit beach you told us that everything would get better." Georgia opened his eyes and stared into the kitchen, stunned. Bobby was only five or six when that hurricane struck Savannah during their vacation. "Everything'll be alright. John and I will be in touch. And, vote for John, will ya? I think he can do a lot for this country. Especially if we can get Dr. King free to do his work once more." Georgia nodded in agreement, some hope filling his heart.

Three days later, Dr. King was released from his prison and Georgia—filled with more nervous energy than he had ever possessed before—offered to drive the man home himself. The authorities were furious by his show of rebelliousness, but Jimmy was nothing if not a stubborn southern man. He helped the man into his car and drive as quick as he could toward where he knew Dr. King lived. Not one word of hate was spoken in that car. Not one word was spoken at all until they both sat in the drive in front of the preacher's home.

"I'm sorry," Georgia murmured. "I…can see both sides. It's because…of what I am. They wouldn't—I just—It's tough to explain."

"You're in a difficult position," Dr. King said as he reached over to place a hand on the State's shoulder. "We will have a tough go of it, I think." With nothing more to add, he gave Georgia a quick nod and got out to rejoin his family. Georgia sat there for a moment with his head bowed. He said nothing and drove off without another word. The conflict was still settled deep in his chest and he felt so ashamed of it. Nothing he could help, but still. If it weren't for the reassuring words of a few humans here and there, he was certain that he would lose his mind. Some dark, feral part of him was against the civil rights movement. A far larger part than he cared to acknowledge. That darkness ate at his mind at all hours of the day. It still lingers in his mind from time to time, echoes of a past he just cannot escape.

Three years later, John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

Five years after that, Dr. King and Bobby were murdered.

Today, Georgia continues to name schools and roads after the men that affected his life. He wishes that he could do more to honor their memories.

There are over seventies roads in Atlanta alone that bear Dr. Martin Luther King's name.

**8.**

He may be the Peach State, but he likes peanuts.

Despite what everyone thinks, peanuts are his biggest crop.

For him, it's the three Ps—peanuts, pecans, and peaches.

Oh, bless your heart.

No, darlin', it's pronounced "pee-KAHN" or "pee-CAN."

All y'all northerners say it funny.

**9.**

It wasn't that he couldn't decide on his capital. There were so many factors to take into account. Savannah was good, but it was also vulnerable and also too far from the center of his growing lands. Augusta was _in the middle of nowhere_. And it fell to the British a little too easily, which didn't help its case for State Capital. Louisville. Well, he still doesn't know what was going on with the ten year stint there. It was further inland and more defensible, sure, closer to the piedmont region of his beautiful lands. Still, it was _Louisville_. While it was literally constructed to be the capital, it just didn't feel right.

Milledgeville, which lasted for about sixty-four years, was…interesting. Every time he took someone to Milledgeville, they'd complain about the crudeness of it. There was a lot of gambling and dueling and drinking and general foolery. Well, he cleaned it up. Got some good architects to make it look sexy. That's right: sexy. It was probably the work of the Lord, Georgia often thought because even France was impressed when he arrived in 1825 with General Lafayette.

Then, his beautiful Atlanta.

The name was going to be "Atlantica-Pacifica" because of the railroads that connected Savannah to the Midwest, but instead James shortened it to "Atlanta" because honestly…Who the hell wants a mouthful of "Atlantica-Pacifica?" No one. Atlanta it was. Though it wasn't his capital yet, Georgia had the sneaking suspicion it would be someday. He felt a connection to it, to the people and the growth of its industry. Then, disaster struck. Sherman burned everything, save for the churches and hospitals. Nothing but ash and blood. Nevertheless, Georgia was determined to rebuilt it even better than before and in 1868, he made the decision to move his capital from Milledgeville to Atlanta.

Now, it is one of his crowning jewels. It served as a major organization center for the Civil Rights Movement, became a lead convention city in 1976, hosted the Olympics in 1996, and is home to a strikingly diverse demographic of people. Migrants flocked to Atlanta from around the globe, joining with the economic boom that followed the Olympics. Theatres, internationally-recognized restaurants, colleges, and…

Damn it, he is diverse and cultured!

**10.**

Georgia has regrets.

Name one State that doesn't.

* * *

**Author's Section**

Georgia's isn't quite as cohesive as the others. I felt like James has a bit more of a fragmented reality. He lives in denial of a lot of things. He's had a lot of trauma in his past, like everyone else. Sometimes he just doesn't deal with things quite the way he should. I could probably go deeper into that characterization, but it treads on subjects I'm not quite comfortable with. He deals with things as best he can and he is perceived by other States as being close-minded and rather negative. He's not really. He's very much just a normal guy in extraordinary circumstances and he usually doesn't know how to handle it. There are a couple things you might notice here and there though. I made very strategic choices in what I included in his Ten Things. Hope everyone enjoyed.

Thank you everyone for your reviews and favorites and follows! They are much appreciated. Please leave your thoughts for Georgia as well. Perhaps not as powerful as the others, but...his is a bit more understated _on purpose_. You really have to look for Georgia's characterization in this one and that was a statement to the state itself.

THANK YOU FOR READING!


End file.
